


frenemies? more like gay sex

by bathroomcry



Category: Le Comte de Monte-Cristo | Count of Monte Cristo - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Frottage, Implied/Referenced Cheating, M/M, Pining, Smut, all the dialogue is in my mediocre french, dont use olive oil as lube kids, i am the only one in this fandom ever, its what dumas wouldve wanted, two gay french losers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2019-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:14:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21521989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bathroomcry/pseuds/bathroomcry
Summary: Caderousse is a troubled, troubled man. He has so deeply fallen in love with an equally depraved human. To make a long story short, he ends up on the floor, drenched in sweat, among other things.
Relationships: Gaspard Caderousse/Baron Danglars
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	frenemies? more like gay sex

**Author's Note:**

> I LOVE THIS SHIP SO MUCH.....

This night paints a similar picture to many others. Gaspard Caderousse, at a bar, sitting alone. Edmond Dantès is long gone, sent to the Château d’If. It is true that Caderousse had wronged him; he was a liar and a greedy man. Still, Dantès did not deserve the future he had gotten. Danglars, the man who, along with Fernand, had caused this whole series of events, was living the high life. So was Fernand. The ex-tailor sinks a bit further into his chair, his mind still a swirling storm of these events.

He quells this with another sip of wine. Just like that, his mind seems to cloud. Not a very healthy remedy, but the only one he knows. The emptiness of his mind, though, is not enough to soothe him. For, subconsciously, he is still wondering if Dantès is planning a vengeful escape or if he lies dead on the cold prison floor.  
His antidote, on this night as well as many others, is none other than Baron Danglars. Yes, that wretched, abhorrent man. Yet, Caderousse finds himself imagining said man almost every day. It is true that Danglars had fallen victim to wrath and envy, but Caderousse had fallen victim to lust. A lust that is not helped in any way by the copious amounts of wine he consumes. He sighs. He is hopeless. Hopeless, hopeless, hopeless. Why, he has a wife! And still, that little voice in his heart asks what it would be like if he only had Danglars instead. 

His solution, as always, is to return home. There, he locks himself in his bathroom and sits on the floor. His neck cranes so he can sadly look at his ceiling. His clothes are worn out and tired from the day. His hair is messy, seeming to want to go in any direction it can. He has thrown off his shoes about the floor, and his socks lay upon the tile as well. Caderousse lets out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding in. He is a sad, sad man.

He knows this, and he is still here nonetheless. And he is still about to do what he’s about to do. He unbuttons his overshirt slowly. He discards it on the floor with his shoes and his socks. He slumps down upon the floor, wracked with guilt. His wife is probably busy doing something of actual importance. The coup de gras of this entire scene is the source of Caderousse’s almost unbearable guilt, located in the front of his unreasonably expensive pants. He covers his face. Not only is he a sad man, but he is also a sick man.

“Merde, Danglars, vous faire tellement de choses pour moi. Regardez ce que vous avez fait.” He laughs, mostly at himself. Well, he’d better get on with it. 

And then, he … doesn’t. He decides this will be the LAST night he spends beside his clawfoot tub being sad and drunk, among other things. He stands up, dons his overshirt once again, in, well, the middle of his bathroom. It is at this moment he realizes that his problem was the sole thing keeping him from exiting the bathroom in the first place. He cannot possibly be seen like this. Oh, haha, except by Danglars. He would welcome Danglars’s eyes on him. 

So he very awkwardly sneaks out of his humble abode, while also very awkwardly attempting to cover his crotch. He is on the streets of Marseilles, in the middle of the night, after having just waddled his way out of his bathroom. He makes a mad dash for his destination. This is not unusual for nineteenth century France, home of really cheesy (no pun intended) romance and running down the street dramatically at night. 

After what seems like (and probably is) hours, he reaches the steps leading up to the home of none other than Baron Danglars. He is a madman. He knows this very well. He has just run miles to commit a sin against God in a Catholic country. He very slowly knocks on the door. To his pleasant surprise, the door opens to a very tired and very angry Danglars. As per usual. After Caderousse has been pelted with French swear words, he is let into Danglars’s very fancy guest parlor. 

Caderousse pretends to make normal, civilised conversation. Little does Danglars know, his skin feels like it’s on fire. Everyone else in the house is asleep. All that remains is Caderousse et son amour. He offers to pour Danglars some wine. He begrudgingly accepts. Caderousse had always been a drunkard. As this is nineteenth century France, liver failure means nothing. Danglars decides to follow in the ways of his old friend, and will drink the night away.

Danglars, Caderousse eagerly notes, is very fun to watch get hammered. He was expecting an angry drunk. That is not what he received. Danglars was, well, not to be rude, but quite a bit more pleasant when intoxicated. When Caderousse brought up the idea of love, Danglars immediately began to babble about his wife, about how he had loved other women. It became too much to bear very quickly. Caderousse slaps a hand over Danglars’s stupid mouth talking about his stupid wife and his stupid affairs. Danglars is a bit scared, but not in the least bit surprised. Caderousse has a tendency to become physical when drunk. 

What he was not expecting, however, was Caderousse’s mouth on his. That escalated quickly. Danglars is shocked, appalled, and just the smallest bit hungry for more. But that is the Devil speaking within him. This is a sin, this is sodomy! Danglars is a man of God, despite how horrible he could be. And yet, Caderousse, another supposed man of God, is trying to swap spit with him. If they have not yet been struck dead by God’s holy wrath, then they were to continue. 

But Danglars was NOT about to have another man dominate him in a kiss. Enough of this chaste lip-pressing. This is France, god damn it! Danglars, God thrown to the curb, attempts to taste every single part of Caderousse’s filthy mouth. 

Caderousse is absolutely enamored with Danglars. He pushes Danglars, causing his dumb stupid fancy French armchair to go toppling onto the floor. It was truly God’s permission to continue that Danglars’s entire family did not wake up with a start. And continue he did. His grip was so tight on the clothes covering Danglars’s chest that he could rip the garments off if he wanted to. He, with much dismay, comes up for air. “Je te veux,” he huffs out. “Mon amour,” he adds, mostly by accident.

“Mon amour?!”

“... Merde.”

He half expects Danglars to pummel him. To his surprise, he is left unscathed. His pride, however, is not. Danglars is looking up at him with a shit-eating grin.

“Oh, Monsieur Caderousse. ‘Mon amour’? Je vais prendre ma revanche pour ce.” 

The smug bastard. Time to fix that. Caderousse pins Danglars down fully to the floor. He decides that he DOES want to rip Danglars’s clothes off, by the way. It would cost him a fortune, but it was worth every franc. And there goes his shirt. And his stupid frilly neck thing. And his pants. By the time Caderousse had reached the pants, he realized that he should probably take Danglars’s shoes off too. This is the only item he removes carefully. Once being a tailor, he knew that the shoes made the outfit. And now Danglars was just in underwear, on his floor, in the middle of the night. Caderousse feels something primal stir within him at that.

________________ 

On this primal instinct, he presses himself even more firmly against Danglars. His once confident and passionate movements had turned into the colliding of mouths and frenzied rutting. Caderousse could not be happier with this. And yet, another explosion of joy bursts within him at the sound of Danglars feverishly begging him to do something. He rushes into the kitchen and Danglars is incredibly confused. He must locate the olive oil. He is on a quest.

He practically destroys the entire kitchen. But at last, he has found it! Danglars eyes the olive oil. His face goes from confusion, to realization, to calculating size and mass, and then to fear. Caderousse strips himself of his own clothing and sits down in front of Danglars. And shoves himself STRAIGHT in. Jesus Christ. Danglars chokes out something that sounds vaguely like a scream and then tapers off into a whine. Caderousse’s eyes nearly roll back into his head, caught off guard by something so tight around him. He puts more olive oil on himself and eases in again much more slowly, drawing a sound so low from Danglars that Caderousse can feel the vibration of it from inside him.

God, it’s such an exquisite feeling. Danglars feels better than the finest silk that the trading ports in Marseilles have to offer, better than any - Oh sweet Jesus he’s drooling everywhere. Oh my God. Oh no. Danglars should be disgusted by spit dripping onto him. Instead, he writhes under it and shudders in delight. He has completely submitted to Caderousse, and honestly, he’s enjoying it. The ideas of holiness and dignity have abandoned him. He lies in the throes of ecstasy, completely submerged in the feeling of Caderousse filling every nook and cranny he has to offer.

“Mon Gaspard, tu m’excites beaucoup.”

Caderousse laughed a bit hoarsely at that. He raised one eyebrow slowly, as if waiting for a direction or command. 

“Plus fort, s’il vous plaît.”

Caderousse does just that. He practically slams into Danglars, who is meeting his thrusts perfectly. A trail of salty tears has formed down Danglars’s face, evidence of how strung out he is right now. Each new push forward is met with a pleasured sob, and in return, a guttural groan from Caderousse.

Caderousse feels the telltale sensation of something coiling in his stomach, except for this time he is not on his bathroom floor. He can tell Danglars is feeling that same sensation, with how he tightens up around Caderousse, drawing noises from the both of them.

Caderousse is at the edge by the time Danglars begins to babble out a mix of his first name and things that would translate into “more” and “please” when put into English. 

He had been brushing ever so slightly against a certain spot inside of Danglars, but hadn’t hit it head on until now.  
This caused Danglars to spasm and shout, finally reaching his climax. His eyes screwed shut, his cock pulsed and twitched, and shot after shot of a warm, viscous liquid poured out of him. Caderousse was not far behind, eyes nearly rolling back into his head as he spasmed and pumped his own release into Danglars. They laid there like that for at least a minute, panting and going limp in each other’s arms. They promised never to speak of this again, and both men went on as if they didn’t know what had happened.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for looking at my garbage


End file.
